


"Maybe."

by toocoldforyouhere



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Love, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Sad Louis, Sadness, Smiles, Tea, bakery harry, poem type thing, warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:31:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toocoldforyouhere/pseuds/toocoldforyouhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis's life seemed to be a big maybe,<br/>lately.<br/>Like he just couldn't figure anything out, so he'd put it aside, toss it aside,<br/>answering any questions with -<br/>“Maybe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Maybe."

Louis wasn't happy.  
Maybe he was.  
He didn't know,   
couldn't tell the difference anymore.  
Couldn't tell the difference between happiness, sadness, and just plain indifference.

He didn't care,  
so it was probably indifference that he felt -  
though he didn't feel much anymore.

Louis's eyes had lost their light -  
(they used to sparkle, once upon a time)  
\- a light that made everyone feel loved.  
At home.

They had lost that,  
now a dull blue,  
the blue of -  
(which one?)  
\- indifference or sadness, he didn't know.

Louis was numb,  
he supposed.  
When he couldn't feel emotions anymore,  
he figured it was numbness,  
or was it just  
(sadness?)  
nothing?

Maybe it was nothing.  
Nothingness that kept Louis awake at night,  
staring at the imperfect white of the ceiling,  
wondering why he wasn't  
(Louis)  
anymore?  
Maybe.

Louis's life seemed to be a big maybe,  
lately.  
Like he just couldn't figure anything out, so he'd put it aside, toss it aside,  
answering any questions with -  
“Maybe.”

Maybe was becoming Louis's least favorite word;  
he didn't like the way it sounded,  
didn't like what it stood for,  
didn't like it.  
But he used it all the time -  
“Maybe.”

Louis felt cold,  
inside.  
In his bones.  
Just, in.  
Sometimes,  
he'd have to drink something  
or eat something  
or read something   
or watch something  
(something was another word he was beginning to dislike)  
to bring back the warmth in his blood.

It was usually coffee,  
but sometimes, it was tea.  
It was usually soup,  
but sometimes, it was a cake.  
It usually was a romance,  
but sometimes, it was a mystery.  
It usually was a comedy,  
but sometimes, it was a thriller.

Louis desired tea.  
He wanted the homey taste.  
He wanted the warmth.  
He wanted the something sweet,  
something sweet that wouldn't be clouded by the bitterness that would always hide in coffee's layers.

He tried to make tea,  
but it came out all wrong.  
It wasn't warm enough,  
(was anything warm enough, to warm someone so cold, so cold that the chattering of their bones was just . . . there?)  
it wasn't sweet enough,  
it didn't make Louis feel good.

So he tossed it.

Louis went out.  
He walked down the street,  
the crunch of the snow under the soles of his tired TOMs somehow reassuring -  
(“this is okay.”)  
\- he hadn't been out and about in a while.  
Not with a purpose, at least.  
Not with a goal in mind;  
something to do.

Something.

Louis walked for a while,  
until he saw a little shop,  
(the little shop)  
a little bakery-type place,  
that looked like home,  
so he stopped walking forward,  
and turned,  
entering the place,  
which was warm.

He liked that about it, immediately.

Louis made it to the counter.  
It was empty, at first,  
and then a boy,  
a boy that was beautiful,  
rushed out of the kitchen,  
and smiled,  
dimpled and bright eyed.

Louis didn't smile back,  
but he wanted to,  
because he already felt better than he had in a long time -  
(how long?)  
\- years, almost.

He observed the boy,  
the gorgeous boy,  
and decided he loved him a little bit.

The boy kept on smiling,  
it never once faltered,  
and then Louis smiled back,  
for the first time in ages, he smiled.  
And it wasn't even forced.  
It was the kind of smile that was unstoppable;  
teeth showing and crinkly eyed,   
Louis felt undeniably warm.

The boy  
was all dimples  
and green eyes  
and chocolate curls  
and tallness  
and pale skin, swirled with dark pictures  
and precious lips,  
all warm,  
all reassuring,  
all of what Louis needed.  
Louis ordered a tea -  
“make it sweet, please.”  
\- and drank it at the counter,  
talking with the boy,  
who's name was Harry.  
He'd told Louis that,   
in a voice that was  
slow, like honey,  
deep, like the far left of a piano,  
gravelly, like the earth itself.

They talked for a long time,  
and Harry asked Louis if he'd come back,  
and Louis smiled again,  
a real smile,  
that made him warmer than the tea,  
and said,

“Maybe.”

But he knew,   
that he'd most certainly come back,  
because they was just something about that boy,  
and suddenly,  
the two words he'd grown to despise,  
became his favorite ones.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this (:  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated, though only if you liked it,  
> and I hope you did (:


End file.
